


Qui vivra verra

by love_in_mind_palace (mysleepyhead)



Series: Without You [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Depression, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, No Mary Morstan, Post-Reichenbach, Sharing a Bed, Suicide Attempt, john hallucinating sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 01:16:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10888800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysleepyhead/pseuds/love_in_mind_palace
Summary: ~He who lives. Shall see~The day Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s, John’s life changed. He settled into his own reality. But after two years, Sherlock appears at his door and asks for forgiveness, John isn’t sure what’s real anymore.





	Qui vivra verra

**Author's Note:**

> I think post-Reichenbach fics are pretty common. But still I wanted to try to write one for myself. I don't know how that turned out to be.  
> As always thanks to Lou for the beta work.
> 
> I hope you guys like.

 

**_"People are not rain or snow or autumn leaves; they do not look beautiful when they fall.”_ **

**_-Naveed. A. Khan_ **

 

 

 

One, two, three, four, five, six.   
  


Watching and counting the water drops as they fall tirelessly from the roof. Water never dies, does it? From however high it falls, it’s the same: the higher it falls from, the more momentum it gains, the fuller of life it becomes.

 

Humans are not like that. Or maybe they are?

 

Sherlock sitting in his chair with a smiling face - there was no blood.

 

 

 

_Did you think a fall could kill me John?_

 

 

  
***

 

 

“John!”  
  


The cobwebs of thoughts (or no particular thoughts), break. John isn’t sure what he was thinking about, he was merely looking at the water drops leaking from the roof.

Maybe Sherlock could look at the water and say how long it has travelled on the face of earth, how long it has been in London, the exact amount of acidity it carries within its molecules.  
  


John knows that it’s just water.  
  


Does the water in the bucket look a bit red? Is it blood or is it water? Is it blood?

 

 

Blood splashed on a pavement. Blood on a beautiful face. Blood streaming over eyes. Blood cascading into inky curls. Too much blood.   
  


The human body on average has five litres of blood. What percentage did he lose (or did not)?

Not again. Not again.  
  


The air around John starts to choke him a bit. Pressure pushing down on his lungs, his heartbeating too fast or not at all. The hairs on the back of his neck standing straight.

  
What happened on the pavement in front of Bart's?  
Don't go there, John.

Another incoherent shout from downstairs stops him from drifting to another uncontrollable thought. John glances at the bucket again.  
  


No. It’s water.  
  


 

John doesn’t look again. What if the next time it isn't water?

 

 

***

 

 

“Is London trying to drown us?”  
  


The irritated, exhausted, familiar voice hisses from John’s right side. Hisses - emphasizing on the sibilant syllables.

 

Sherlock in his blue dressing gown, inside out t-shirt, old pyjamas, sprawled across the sofa. The light from two lamps illuminating his gaunt face. Sherlock doesn’t look like what he used to. No one does. His closed eyelids make John’s heart go a bit cold again and he struggles to reason with his own stupidity.  
  


He will open his eyes this time. Don’t worry. He will open his eyes and John will see the ocean in which he wanted to drown forever in, the small spot just noticeable on his right iris; eyes glinting with the usual sparkle in them and everything will be normal again.

 

Everything is normal again. Or at least it is supposed to be.  
  


John watches as Sherlock throws the magazine in frustration across the room from the sofa and it drops with a mild thud.  
  


Outside the flat, thunder rambles. Wind blows, making siren-like noises. London is trying to drown them. Choke them.

  
Sherlock grunts impatiently. The sounds are real. Are they?  
How can John be sure that he isn't making things up in his head? That he isn’t projecting his desires from some sort of deranged grief?

  
“What’s the weather forecast?” John asks. He is not sure to whom the question is intended to. Maybe the air? Or perhaps a breathing, living  human being?  
  


Air. Not air. Sherlock answers.

“Going to last at least two days. Boring. Irritating. I hate this. I will kill Mycroft.”

  
  
“Why Mycroft? What did he do?”   
  
John turns to fully face the thin figure lying on the sofa with fingers steepled under his chin; eyes closed, the side of lips curl a little and Sherlock opens his eyes - mischief dancing under his eyelashes.  
  


“I’ve had this theory for a long time that Mycroft controls the weather. Easier than controlling the nation, if you ask my honest opinion.”  
  


 

 

John doesn’t know why he finds that funny. Maybe it's because of Sherlock's feeble attempt at controlling his own laughter and trying to keep a straight face? Or maybe it’s the imagery forming in his mind of Mycroft floating on a cloud using his umbrella with a grim face? Or maybe, maybe he just missed laughing. Either way, he bursts out laughing. Almost giggling like a kid, unable to control his outburst - dropping the empty plastic pot he was holding.

 

After a fraction of a second, a deep baritone joins him in the laughter. Their voices overpower the rambling of the thunder - pushing and drowning it back.

 

John knows the laughter is real.

  
John tries to believe the laughter is real but only if he could touch the muscles on Sherlock's throat and feel the vibrations. He knows he could be hundred percent sure.

 

 

When they stop laughing, John has tears in his eyes and apparently Sherlock has too, because he is rubbing his palms over his eyes. Sherlock’s face is glowing like it used to before.  
  


_Before..._

John can’t remember the last time he laughed like this.

  
No. He is lying to himself. He can remember.  
  


It was when instead of putting salt in his lunch, Sherlock had accidentally replaced it with powdered sugar. Sherlock was howling at the dinner table and it was so contagious, John was dying from laughter himself by just watching his face.

 

That was three days before Sherlock jumped from the roof of Bart’s hospital and took every ounce of laughter with him.  
  


But he actually never left John.   
  


 

And that's where John's life became complicated.

 

 

  
***

 

 

 

After two years, on an apparently fine and uneventful afternoon; when a familiar figure in a wool coat, ironed shirt, mop of curls and sharp cheekbones, stood at the door of his little one room flat and apologized in a choked voice for the pain he caused over and over, John didn’t know what to say.

 

Because just a minute ago Sherlock was in the small living room of his cheap flat. Making a fuss over the stupidity of the newspaper.

 

“Sorry for the pain I caused you John. I had to do it. To protect you. To protect everyone.”  
  


Was Sherlock talking about the jump from the roof?

  
That was stupid and unexpected coming from Sherlock. Yes, there was blood. Yes, it was traumatizing.

 

  
  
But Sherlock came back to him just hours later. No blood anywhere, not even a cut on his slender face. Suit pressed and pristine as always.

 

  
  
***  
  


 

 

_“Scared you. Didn’t I?”_

 

_Loud laughter had drowned the sound of weeping coming from the floor down. Mrs. Hudson was weeping for some reason. John thought he knew why._   


_Mycroft came to talk about a funeral. Sherlock's funeral. John was laughing inside. Mycroft was a liar. Sherlock was in the kitchen working an experiment concerning human hairs. He was laughing as well._   


_Mycroft couldn’t hear the laughter. Or maybe he pretended he didn’t._

 

_John decided that 221b was not an ideal place for him to live anymore. He didn't know why he came to that decision._

  
_Maybe the air was getting stuffy? Too much dust? In the depths of his subconscious there was a sensation chanting the same phrase over and over._   


_You know why John. You know why._   


_John decided to ignore the voices inside and instead invested his time to build a suitable reason behind the decision. He was sure everyone was going to stop him._   


_To his surprise, no one protested. Mrs Hudson didn’t even utter one word of protest. She just wiped her eyes in her small handkerchief, saying how she understands._   


_"Sentiment.” Sherlock murmured from behind._   
  


_Mycroft just offered to help find a new flat, which John politely declined. Mycroft never asked if Sherlock agreed to this._   


_"He didn't ask about me? Rude." Sherlock said coming out from the toilet. Still in his suit._

_  
_

_“Aren't you gonna protest?” John asked._   


_“No. Of course not. Why would I?” Sherlock was clearly surprised._

 

  
_“Why? You love this flat. This is part of your existence - part of our existence. Aren't you gonna stop me from moving? Why aren't you telling me how stupid a decision this is? You should tell me how stupid I am like always.” John asked in quite a high voice against his will and tried to swallow the unexplainable lump forming in his throat._

_  
_

_“You know why John.” Sherlock replied with the ever familiar smile hanging from his lips._   


_"Look for a one bedroom flat."_   


_Sherlock sat in his chair and looked tenderly at John._   


_"Why?" John's stomach had spiders crawling all over. Not butterflies._   


_"You know I don't need a room anymore." He replied absentmindedly, straightening his suit._

_  
_

_"Why Sherlock?" John's voice was choking._

_  
_

_"You know why. Do you really want me to tell you explicitly?"_

  
  
_Pale eyes looked at John. Eyes laden with sadness._

 

_John didn't know why. John didn't want to acknowledge that he knew why. All the when and what and why's were tucked away in a small box and John hid the key away._   


_"No, I don't."_   
  


_It took John three hours to pack. It would have taken less time if he didn't stop every five minutes to look at Sherlock's belongings. Don’t they need to pack some of his things?_

  
_"We don't need to take any of my stuff, John."_   


_Sherlock peeked inside the bathroom._   


_"But if you want to take my blue scarf or the Persian slipper, you can."_   


_"I think I am gonna take this."_   


 

_John picked up the black conditioner bottle from their bathroom shelf and looked at the blue tiles on the wall. Sherlock used to say there was a wrong tile on the wall. John never found it._

  
_"Why that John?"_   


_"I… I loved this smell on you. Not loved. Sorry. I love this smell on you. I have never told you that before. Gosh. I am telling you now. Please don't judge me, Sherlock."_   


_"Telling me now, it's not the same John."_

  
  
_Sherlock’s voice was so pained. John wanted to ask the reason but after five seconds of consideration, he decided not to._   


_"No, it is the same. Don't try to convince me otherwise."_   


 

_There was a single tear streaming down Sherlock's cheek. John didn't dare ask why._   


 

 

 

 

_On the fourth day, after moving into a small flat, Sherlock still in his suit (for some reason - which he never stopped wearing), stood in the doorway of the small kitchen and asked softly. Too softly._   


_"Do you realize you are wasting a lot of food John?"_

_"I am not wasting. I am making food for us." John's voice shook._

_"John you need to understand."_

 

  
  
_Sherlock took one step towards the small kitchen table  which John was cutting vegetables or rather trying to. Since Sherlock walked in, John's hand had started shaking._   


_"Need to understand what Sherlock?" John asked from between gritted teeth. His eyes had gone dry and burning._   


_"You need to understand why I can't eat. Why I don't need a bed anymore. Why no one asks you about me."_   


_Sherlock was so close that John should have felt his warmth on his back. But there wasn't any. Wasn't that weird?_   


_"Ella asks me about you."_   
  
_There was a fly on the wall, watching their conversation with eager eyes. John wanted to crush it._   


_"And you never tell her the truth. John you have to tell her about me."_

  
  
_Sherlock was so close that his breath should be brushing against John's neck. But it wasn't._

  
_"Tell her what exactly?"_

  
  
_John didn't know when he gripped the kitchen counter so hard. His hands were hurting, his knuckles white from the lack of blood flow._   
_But the pain was the only thing that felt good. Sherlock stood behind him in his blue suit, the suit which he hadn’t stopped wearing for the past two weeks._

  
  
_Once, John decided to ask him about it but a gut feeling had stopped him and reminded him that he might not like the answer._   


 

_"I am not real, John. I am not here."_   


 

 

_"You are here. Don't lie!"_

 

  
  
***  
  


 

“What's the pot for?”  
  


Sherlock asks John after the laughter ceases. John feels two eyes following his every move. Like always. Those eyes were here always, weren’t they?   
  


"Another leak. This time just above my bed." John lets out a sigh.  
  


 

“It never leaked before. I mean two years ago. Can hardly blame Mrs Hudson. She did her best.”  
  


 

Sherlock runs his fingers through his unruly curls. The hairs are shorter than before. The curls all the same.  
  


If only John could touch them and make sure.

 

When John comes back after placing the pot under the new leak, Sherlock has changed positions. Smoking in front of a closed window - looking at the darkness. The smell of the tobacco slips through John's skin. Reality or olfactory memory? If only John could taste it. The last two years, Sherlock never smoked.

 

Sherlock turns around and embarrassment is smeared over his whole face.  
  


"Sorry. The smoke... I shouldn't have. Even the window is closed. Sorry John." He dips the cigarette into an abandoned teacup.  
  


“It’s fine. It’s all fine,” John lifts his left hand in a sign of approval, “it’s good.”

 

 

It’s familiar. It’s memory. It’s real.  
  


“Are you gonna cook?” Sherlock asks softly.  
  


“Yes… Are… Are you gonna eat?” John stutters. And Sherlock surprises him.  
  


“Yes I am hungry. And if it’s not much trouble, I miss the thing you used to… make. The thing with the peas.” A childlike grin spreads across the thin face.

 

John’s food goes cold as he finds himself busy watching Sherlock gobble up his food.

  
His heart misses a beat when Sherlock offers to eat his portion too.  
  


John’s eyes burn while cleaning the dishes. Tears threatening to fall down.

 

  
John stops it with the best of his efforts.

 

  
***  
  


 

_“This bed is too small Sherlock. Where are you gonna sleep?”_

  
  
_John struggled to find a comfortable space as Sherlock watched, leaning on the doorframe. Unmoving, still as a statue._   


_“This bed is perfect and enough for you, John.” Sherlock hushed._

_“But...”_   


_“No John, I don’t need to sleep. But you do. You know why.”_

 

  
  
_Sherlock sat beside John on the bed, the bed didn’t dip as it should of. John couldn’t see the expression on Sherlock’s face in the darkness. But his voice sounded so pained._   


_“Don’t tell me why.” John’s voice choked._   


_“As you wish.”_   


_“Stay with me… Please.”_   
  
_John attempted to touch the arm beside him. His hands moved through air. Touching nothing._   


_“Never leaving again.”_

 

  
  
_The soft murmur was the last thing John remembered before falling asleep._

 

 

  
***

 

 

 

“What are you doing?”

  
  
Sherlock walks into the living room with a glass of water in hand.  
  
“My bed is ruined from the water. So the sofa seemed the next best option.”   
  
John says not looking up, putting a sheet over the leather couch. Trying to not look at the soft curls surrounding Sherlock’s thin face or the unruly eyebrows forming the question.  
  


“Don’t be ridiculous John. The sofa is not really a good option concerning your shoulder. You are in pain already. I saw you rubbing the area, trying to massage it.”  
  


He hears the sound of glass being put down and then John feels a warmth beside him.

 

  
Unexpected. Expected.  
  


 

 

“My bed is big enough for both of us, John. I promise I won’t smother you in your sleep.”  
  


"I..." John isn't even sure what he is going to say.  
  


"Please."  
  


Sherlock doesn't give John a chance to protest. Instead he picks up the pillow John brought with him and walks towards the open door of his bedroom.  
  


John stands in the middle of the living room trying to tame his stupidly beating heart.  
  


It’s too much. It’s gonna be too much to take. Too much at once.  
  


John doesn't remember how long he stands there but the sound of the bathroom door opening awakes him from his haze.  
  


After the bathroom door shuts, John decides to enter Sherlock's room. Each of the steps he takes becoming heavier and heavier. The first time in two years.   
It’s the same.  
  


But he doesn’t have time to wish and enjoy the familiarity. The water stops running in the bathroom and John climbs hurriedly into the bed, taking the side closest to the wall and squeezes his eyes shut. Turning his back to the whole room - to the man the room belongs to.  
  


The bathroom door opens and closes softly. A huff of scented air fills the room up. Lavender. John's nostrils flare as he breathes in, olfactory nerves awakening in the familiar aroma. John listens as a dressing gown falls to the floor and Sherlock climbs into the bed.  
  


The bed dips like it should, like when the weight of an adult human falls over it. Heat radiates from the body beside John. Ninety-eight point six degrees Fahrenheit. Steady, rhythmic breaths.

 

For the first time in two years, the body beside John is real.  
  


 

The room is too silent. Silence draping over them like an old curtain; too long hanging without disruption and they’ve both forgotten how to move them.  
  


"Goodnight John."  
  


Two small words.  
  


And like a weak human, John cries.

 

 

Tears start to trickle down his eyes and he suppresses a sob as he feels a pair of eyes watching his back. A real pair. John feels naked.

 

 

  
***

 

 

_"John would you listen to me?”_

 

_"I thought I came here so you can listen to me.”_

 

_"And lately you are not doing much of the talking. Are you?"_

 

  
_Ella tilted her head. Raising her eyebrows._

_"John. You have too much bottled inside. You need to let it out."_

 

 

_Ella's smooth voice lingered in the well furnished room. Rain poured like there was a constant leak in the clouds. The glass panels became foggy. It was so dark, so gloomy. Like the inside of John was._   


_"Let what out?”_   


 

_John tried hard to not seem weak. To not seem vulnerable._   


_To Ella's left side, a tall thin figure in the familiar coat looked at him with unblinking eyes. Waiting for his words._

_  
_

_"The things that you wanted to say but never have."_   


_The rain intensifies outside. Pouring harder, pelting against the glass windows._

_John felt a vice over his chest. Words bottled inside. Memories shoved down the back of his throat. The weight of an unmoving body._   


_A dead body weighs more than an alive one._   


_"Say it John. Say it now."_   


_Ella’s soothing voice tried to push him to the edge._

_And the pressure inside John burst._

 

  
  
_A thick venous hand had crushed John's heart. Crushed his lungs. Crushed his existence._

_John tried hard again to be not vulnerable. A soldier's pride, refusing to seem weak. Life is a battlefield. John had survived many._   


_But sentiment, love, heartbreak. One man brought everything into John’s life which he was missing. And then, like the impossible man he was, he was just gone._

_  
_

_John failed. His voice betraying his feelings._

  
  
_"No... I can't."_   
  
_He replied with the last of his breath. Ella’s eyes looked back at him with sadness. Maybe there was sympathy too._   


 

_John saw none of that. He just focused on the tall familiar figure dropping his hand to his side from where it was resting on the glass._

 

 

 

_On the glass, over the vapour, there should have been a handprint like a real person's. There was none._

 

 

_  
_

***

 

 

They don't talk about the night the whole day. It's like the night was a normal one. Like every day of their life John has slept on Sherlock’s bed and cried. The rain makes no attempt at stopping anytime in the near future. John almost suspects Mycroft is behind it.  
  


At night, after dinner, John finds himself standing in front of Sherlock's bed again. He suspects that Sherlock actually gives him this window of time every day so he can adjust to the unfamiliarity and the whole situation.  
  


John repeats the previous night's activity and faces the wall. When the body radiating warmth lies down beside him, John feels content for the first time in two years.

Sleep comes instantly. Too instantly.

 

 

  
***

 

 

_“I am so sorry John.”_

 

  
_Mrs Hudson wiped her tears in the small handkerchief._   


_Sorry for what? Because my friend died? No Mrs Hudson, my love died. I saw him jump from a roof and could not do anything. Do you know he still lives with me? Do you know he is currently sitting in the chair beside you and looking at your face? Yes I made him up Mrs Hudson. I am so weak a man, I made up Sherlock in mind to cope! Aren’t you going to tell me how mentally unstable I am? Do I need to go to an asylum?_   


 

_What came out from his mouth was: “Thank you Mrs. H”._   


_When Mrs Hudson walked out of the door leaving behind a plate of muffins, Sherlock had walked behind John and whispered:_   


 

_“You are not mentally unstable.”_   


_John burst into hysterical laughter. Struggling for air._   


_“Look at my own mind trying to fight me. Look how off the rails I am!”_   
  
_John shouted at the empty room. A deep sigh came out from within his chest._   


_“Well, not for long.”_

 

 

  


_“Thanks for the drink Greg, I appreciate it.”_

  
  
_John sipped at his whiskey. Trying to smile at Greg._   


_“Don’t mention it. I thought you would like the air. You don’t seem to go outside much. How is everything going?”_   


 

_“Excellent. I am loving the clinic hours.”_

_~~I see Sherlock everywhere.~~ _   


 

_“I have picked up  few hobbies.”_

_~~All I do is talk with an apparition the whole day.~~ _   


 

_"I've put on a little weight."_

~~_I drink to forget everything._ ~~

 

_“I am fine.”_

_~~I cry myself to sleep every night.~~ _

 

_Jon felt relaxed after socializing was over._

  
  


_"Don't do this John."_

 

_Sherlock crouched in front of John. Plea reverberating in his eyes. The bright eyes reflecting the fluorescent light all the same. John missed it so much; the sparkle in the eyes when he solved a mystery, the soft gaze which he kept for John only._   


 

_John missed that. And it was getting harder and harder with each passing day._   


_"Give me one good reason."_

  
  
_John opened the safety catch of his Sig Sauer. The weapon smiled at him like a shameless lover. Waiting to drag him to hell in a moment's notice. One love left him. One love never did._   


_"Because I am saying so?"_   


_"You are not real. You are just me. My own mind reasoning with me. You are not him. He is gone. He died one year ago. Mycroft came to talk to me about a funeral. It was your funeral. You are sleeping in the cemetery, peacefully asleep and now I am going to meet you. We need to talk.”_   


 

_"Because I would stop you if I was here. The real me. Like I stopped your life from being boring anymore, like how I brought the battlefield to your feet, like I made you fall in love again."_   


 

_"Fall in love! Like you knew how I loved you. You didn't even give me one fucking chance! God. I was going to do something about us soon. Maybe you didn’t even notice that I had stopped seeing anyone else." John’s voice breaks._

 

_"I would let none of these things happen if I were here, John." Sherlock - the made up Sherlock starts whimpering. Each sob stabbing John at the core of his heart._   


_"But you are not here. And that's the point. That's the whole point of it. You are gone. The reason for me to be alive is gone."_   


_When the barrel of the gun touches John’s temporal, John flinches for a second. But only a second._   


 

_“I was so alone. And I owe you so much.”_

 

_  
_

_And he pulled the trigger._   
  


 

 

John wakes up soaked in sweat and screaming at the top of his lungs.

Two strong hands are gripping him, shaking him. Almost bruising his forearms. Repeating a phrase over and over.  
  


"John look at me. Whatever was it, it was a nightmare. John. Please. Open your eyes. It's Sherlock. It's me. I am not a dream.”  
  


 

 

John can still feel the warm blood on his hand but he never pulled the trigger that day. He was determined to but no, he did not.

 

 

  
***

 

 

 

_"Won't you listen to me one last time? I beg you! Just once."_   


_John had paused for a second._   


_“Do your best.” He said behind gritted teeth._   


_John can still remember what his imaginary Sherlock told to him that day._   


_"If you are gone, then there will be no one to remember me John. No one left to remember the real me. All they will know about is the hard cold machine, the persona of me that is presented to the outside world.”_   


_“You were not a machine.” John’s grip on the gun loosens. A long suppressed sob starts crawling up his throat._   


_“You know what I was. And as long as you live, I will be alive in you. Tell me John, do you still want to die?"_   


_And John couldn't. Like the weak man he had become, he couldn't. He remembered as the gun slipped from his grip, hitting the floor and then letting his body slide down the side of the bed._   


 

_The cold floor felt like dead memories. Cold, hard, unmoving. Tears started to roll down from John’s tired eyes. And he cried and cried. His tears dried after a while. His eyes burned like someone sprayed pepper in them. But John couldn't stop crying. Dry sobs kept coming from the bottom of his lungs and the pit of his stomach. All he wanted was someone holding him. Not just any someone. A certain someone with two hands, some warmth, some consolation._

_  
_

_The last time John cried like this when he visited Sherlock's grave. The shiny black headstone had stood there unmoving._   


 

 

_Both times, there was no one to hold John. The apparition of Sherlock stood there, useless like he always had been. Unmoving like the gravestone._

 

 

  
***

 

 

“John. Look at me John. Please look at me.”

 

John looks and sees concern in two sea blue eyes. He sees fear.

 

Two hands on his forearms. Two real hands at last, giving off real heat..

 

It takes John a few seconds to realize that the hands are actually touching him. It takes a few more seconds to realize that it has been years, two years. It takes him another few more seconds to realize that he is sobbing like a child in Sherlock’s arms.

 

 

John never knew what Sherlock felt like.

 

 

  
***

 

 

“John. Can I ask you a question?”   
  
Sherlock had asked timidly, sitting on the couch of John’s small flat. Holding the cup of tea with both of his hands.  
  


“Yes, do it.” John had just given a curt nod as a small encouragement.  
  


“Come back at 221B. Like the old times again.”  
  


John looked up at the man sitting in front of him. The familiar plea in his eyes.  
  


You asked me to watch you when you died. I obeyed. Now you ask me to live with you again. Is it that easy Sherlock? Do you think it’s easy? I don’t even know what’s real anymore. You might be just another believable figment of my mind. But knowing what you mean to me, do I even have a choice?  
  


John surprised Sherlock and even himself with the quick “Of course. Yes.”  
  


 

It took just one day to move in with John’s small possessions. Baker Street was a bit dusty. But it was the same. The same set of chairs sat in the living room, the same old drapes, the same two people. Two people who may have looked the same from outside but were completely different on the inside.  
  


And they slipped into their almost same old life again. Almost the same because John knowingly or unknowingly refused to touch Sherlock in any way.  
  


Two years of trying to touch and getting nothing does that to people.

 

The way John refused to take anything from Sherlock’s hand or flinched when Sherlock even made an indication of a casual touch, gave it away.  
  


The hurt in Sherlock’s eyes reflected the unsaid question.

 

 

_Am I that appalling?_   


All the unsaid things about the two years were in a box just between them and all they did was dance around it. Never attempting to touch it.

 

John never asked how and why and Sherlock never tried to tell.

 

John promised not to touch Sherlock again.  
  


 

Because if he touches Sherlock and if his hand doesn't move in the air just like it did in the past couple of years… John isn't sure what he is gonna do.  
  


If he tries to hold Sherlock but at the end it's not, just his own hands which are wrapped around himself, he is not sure how he should react.  
  


 

But gone was everything. Gone were the resolutions, gone was the strong soldier, and gone was the lonely man, fortunately.  
  


Because John is crying without showing any indication of stopping and Sherlock Holmes, who was dead for two years, is holding him tight, murmuring words of assurance.

 

  
  
Sounds like utter bullshit. But it is happening. Like the rain pouring outside, John cries like there is no tomorrow.  
  


The more tighter the embrace becomes, the more real it becomes. And after a while, it gets overwhelming.  
  


 

John starts to struggle under Sherlock's hold. Still tears streaming down his face, saliva and mucus smeared, his skin blotchy and red from crying as well as all the unpleasant things. And Sherlock loosens the embrace.  
  


 

“John!”

 

“I can’t do this anymore.” John almost shouts.

 

“John I am so sorry. If I only knew.”

 

In spite of his tears, John sees red. So much red.

  
  
“What didn’t you know Sherlock? That I would be heartbroken if you died? That I won’t just be able to brush it away and go on with my life? That I loved you. I love you still? Do you know how unbearable it became? Did you know on the one year of your… your death anniversary, I wanted to kill myself so that I could be with you. To heaven or to hell if any of those places exists. But I didn't pull the trigger that day because you told me not to.”  
  


 

John manages to say between the sobs. He knows it's too much information. After all these years, after all of that, at last he is baring his heart without expecting anything. He is not sure why he says it all but he says it anyway.  
  


 

The room falls silent suddenly. The only sounds in the room are of John's sobbing and Sherlock's barely there breathing.  
  


 

Sherlock doesn't talk for almost a minute and then whispers, horror laced in his words.  
  


 

“John… what did you do?”  
  


John wants to get angry because of the stupid question. Doesn't Sherlock still understand? That a world without him is not a place John wants to live in anymore?  
  


 

But his eyes betray him, his whole body betrays him, exposing himself to Sherlock’s scrutiny.

 

Instead of getting angry, tears starts to fall from his eyes again.  
  


“Can't you deduce that? Yes you can. Yes I went to die. I wanted to die. I placed the gun here.” John places two fingers on his temple ghosting his past motion.  
  


 

“But I couldn't pull the trigger. I couldn’t Sherlock.”  
  


The tears flow at a steady pace. From the walls of his own tears John sees two glossy eyes looking back at him.  
  


 

Is Sherlock crying?

 

Is it sympathy?

 

Is it love?

 

Is John Watson that lucky?  
  


“Oh my god, oh my god, John.”  
  


Sherlock murmurs like a machine repeating words.  
  


“Will you ever forgive me? John... I don't expect you to... “  
  


Sherlock's voice chokes. Outside, a bolt of lightning strikes. John doesn't know why his hand does what it does. The slap on Sherlock's face replicates the sound the thunder made just seconds ago. John's hand hurts. The slap fell sharp against Sherlock's cheekbone.

 

When Sherlock lifts his face, his right cheek is mottled red and a tear streaks down his cheek.  
  


“Can’t say I didn't deserve that.”

 

The curved smile brings up memories, long buried ones, being closer together, smiling together. Mountains of unsaid words and all John wants is to hit him again. Because it felt more real than he had ever felt in the past two years. He wants Sherlock to hit him back.

 

So he starts throwing his fists like a maniac. The hits landing haphazardly on the warm body in front of him.  
  


“You left me to grieve, you died in front of me and you expect me to forgive you like that?”  
  


Sherlock makes no effort to protest. Sits there absorbing all the feeble slaps and punches that John throws at him.

 

 

After a while, John stops on his own.  
  


 

“Why aren't you hitting me back?” He sobs loudly.  
  


 

“Because you don't deserve it.”

Sherlock's voice sounds calm like the summer nights they used to have together. Opposite to the thunder rumbling outside.

 

“But you have to! You have to hit me back. It’s important.” John feels his throats hurting.

 

“Important? Tell me why John.”

 

“Because I’m not sure if I am making this up! I am not sure if you are real. I have seen you besides my bed every night Sherlock. I have seen you everywhere. You have to do something you never did before.”  
  


Tears and more tears. John doesn't know how he could shed so much liquid from his eyes without shrivelling up.

 

“John I swear if i could change…”

“Shhh… Listen to what I am saying, Sherlock.” The dried tears around John's eyes start itching. But he ignores the uncomfortable sensation. He has to tell Sherlock now.  
  


 

“I got good with my imagination Sherlock. I never let anyone know I could still see you after you died. I got so good at it. I fooled everyone.”  
  


 

John’s nails start digging at his palm. He had touched Sherlock a few minutes ago. But that wasn't enough.

 

 

“So you have to do something you have never done before. Beat me to a bloody pulp so that I can be sure!”  
  


 

But Sherlock just sits there like a statue. Unmoving, blinking slowly, eyes wide.

 

  
“That’s not gonna do Sherlock.”  
  


 

John lifts his hand to hit him again.  
  


But a hand stops him. And the touch sends jolts of excitement and electricity through John's nerves.  
  


 

 

That's it. Now Sherlock's gonna hit back and then John will know for sure. John will bloody know. John isn't sure what he is gonna do with the knowledge but yes, he will know.  
  


 

But the blowback doesn't come.

 

“I never did this before too.” Sherlock murmurs, still holding John's hand with an iron grip.

 

And then something unexpected happens. What John never imagined. What John could never dare to imagine. What John never knew how it felt like. What he always wanted to know how it feels like.

 

Like the twist at the end of fairy tales.

 

 

 

Sherlock kisses him.  
  


 

 

***

 

 

 

_“He is cheating on his wife with his new secretary.”_

  
  
_Sherlock said while John checks his patient's mouth. Over one year, but John still gets heart  palpitations whenever Sherlock talks in the presence of someone. What if he himself says the words out loud and someone heard him?_   


_“His male secretary.” John caught Sherlock smiling slyly from his peripheral._

 

_“Had a quick shag before he came here. I… no you can smell the sex on him, can’t you?”_

 

_Sherlock jumped down from the table and started circling John and Mr. Brown, John struggles to keep his face as emotionless as possible._   


_“He kept him pinned to the wall. Can you see the crinkles in his shirt at his forearm? That's where the young man gripped him. Young, yes. How do you know that? His carrier bag. He chose it for him. Young man’s style. His wife would never pick that for him._   


 

_When the door shuts and the mechanism clicks, John’s alone again. The sly smile still hanging on Sherlock’s lips._   


 

_“You wanted me like that.”_   


 

_John didn't answer instantly. Instead he looked at the apparition. The dark curls, the blue suit, the eyes. He became doubtful sometimes about how exactly did Sherlock look. He hadn't seen any pictures of him for a long time. Sherlock was always beautiful. But John wasn't sure that he looked exactly like that._   


_“Sometimes you just wanted to press a kiss on my forehead. But sometimes…”_

 

_Sherlock walked around him. Making no noise despite the stepping of his shoes._   


_“Sometimes you just wanted to grab my head and dip your tongue between my lips, pushing  into me. Pinning me against the wall and feeling my cock. Feel me opening for you while begging.Turn me around and...”_   


 

_“Stop it! Stop this! Stop, stop, stop!” John started to shout in an attempt to stop Sherlock from talking and heard the door click open._   


 

_“John, what is it? Is anything wrong? You were shouting.”_   


 

_Sarah's concerned face told John that things went a bit out of hand._

 

_“Nothing... it's nothing. I was just talking to myself. I am sorry for my voice. Got a bit high right?”_   


 

_“It's okay John. It's nothing. Do you want me to bring you some lunch?”_

 

_Sarah was a kind soul and was polite enough to not say that it wasn’t okay. That he was shouting like a maniac. John hated the pity._

 

_“I just need to rest a little, Sarah. Sorry.”_

 

_“I will leave you to rest, John. No big deal.”_

 

_The door closed with a mild thud and only then John realized how painfully aroused he was._

 

_Ignore, ignore._   


_But there is no escape from thoughts once they’re planted in your mind._

  
_John saw a pale throat of a stranger in the tube and thoughts of Sherlock’s bare throat came rushing into his mind. A mess of dark brown curls on a man and the image of how Sherlock’s sweat slicked curls would look._   


 

 

_When he closed the door of his flat, Sherlock was standing in front of him with the sly smile still intact._   


 

_“Think about me, John.”_   


 

_Like John ever thinks about anything else._   


 

_“No.”_

  
  
_John's eyes were pricking. He grabbed himself over his trousers as if to stop himself from further touching his throbbing erection. He wanted it to just go away. Just go._   


_“Do it John. I am dead. I won't judge. Maybe I would appreciate it too. Watching you like this.”_   


 

_“No, please.” John whimpers as he struggles to take a deep breath in._   


_“Do it John. You know you want to. Think about the glimpses you caught of my skin. The curves of my lip that fascinated you... Think about how I would look naked on your bed. Think about how I would moan if you were inside me. You are so close John. Don't stop.”_   


 

_And John didn't - couldn't. His hands were not listening to him. They had a mind of their own and were rubbing over the tent in his trousers.  Within a few seconds, tears still dripping down his face, elbow deep in guilt, shame and heartbreak, John was coming. In his pants. Filthy, unprepared and guilty._

 

_He slid down the door and sat there. Sobbing alone._

_  
_

_Sitting in a sticky mess, after masturbating in front of a made up shadow of his dead love, John hated himself more than anything at that moment._

 

 

***

 

 

It was not a full kiss. Not a technical one.

 

Sherlock’s lips just pressed softly against John’s, barely touching. Just there. Like at any moment's notice or within an indication of discomfort, Sherlock will retreat and run away - like a scared kitten touching its nose to someone.

 

For some seconds, John has no idea of what to do.

 

It is Sherlock kissing him first and silently waiting for his permission? John doesn’t know how to communicate that he approves.

 

So all he does is let out a long held sigh. There must have been some sort of a positive signal in it because in the next moment Sherlock gently cups his face and deepens the kiss.

 

John knows what both of them are feeling like now. Give a man the things he desires, and he will never stop being thirsty.

 

Who knew a kiss could be such thorough communication. John has kissed many people, but this - this was unprecedented and better than he could ever dream of.

 

Every gentle suck meant ‘I’m sorry.’ Every tender bite meant ‘I missed you’. Every pressure of lips meant ‘I love you’.

 

John’s hand clutches the front of Sherlock’s t-shirt, seeking more contact involuntarily.

 

After a while, when they part for breath, neither of their hands leave each other. Neither do their gazes. Eyes search for comfort, seeking hints of discomfort, love perhaps and lust, definitely lust.

 

Because in a few seconds, John kisses Sherlock and the difference it has between the first one is that John finally takes control and feels Sherlock’s muscle relax. With the strength of the kiss he pushes Sherlock back to the bed and he feels that he is not alone.

 

John realizes the first kiss was too sudden and did not let him savour how Sherlock tasted. How kissing Sherlock Holmes actually felt. Under the mint of the toothpaste, Sherlock tasted, well like Sherlock. Just himself. And John was sure.

 

When they part for the second time, John cannot help brushing his finger over Sherlock’s kiss swollen lips.

 

And kisses him again.

 

Unsaid words flow.

 

_You are real._

 

_Yes I am._

 

_I wanted this._

 

_I love you._

 

_I forgive you._

 

How many times in his life had he fantasized about kissing Sherlock? Once, twice? A thousand times.

 

John wanted to kiss Sherlock when he smiled, wanted to kiss and confess when they were alone and sitting too close. Cried in the room alone when Sherlock died and there was no chance left.

 

Now Sherlock is alive and real and under him being kissed and he’s kissing back and the way his hip bucks up acknowledging John with the presence of his erection, John stops thinking for first time in many years.

 

John has no idea what will happen after this, where will things go from here, but this is the present and John decides to indulge.

 

Balancing himself on one hand and still kissing Sherlock, John lowers his hand until it touches Sherlock’s waist, just over the elastic band of his pyjamas. John may have imagined this or not but feels Sherlock start shaking under him. How much of that is anticipation or fear? John doesn’t know, but the hand gripping his own assures him that it’s the first one for most of the part.

 

The undressing is hurried and not even complete. They don’t need complete, all their bodies  are asking for is release, together. John knows it’s not gonna be perfect. But it will be perfect for both of them.

 

When both of their erections touch for the first time, it becomes deafening in John’s head.

  
Trying to rationalize all the things going on at once - touching Sherlock after so long, being intimate with someone after so long, being intimate with Sherlock for first time, the possibility that the intimacy with Sherlock exists. John’s body never expected any of this.

 

 

When John starts to rub against Sherlock’s erection with his own, it feels like not just making love. It’s like the pull of gravity. Unstoppable and natural. Like they have always made love. Like it’s not the first time.

 

 

When both of their mouths fall open and they breathe in each other, sharing the air, it’s reassurance. This is it. This is permanent.

 

Thunder drowns the noise of skin on skin, drowns the moans of pleasure. Makes them forget all the years wasted.

 

When Sherlock cries loudly and comes in between them and John does too, it’s reality.

  
I am here, we are here. The warmth between us, the uncomfortable mess, all too real.

 

 

“Is it too late?” Sherlock whispers, trying to catch his breath when John kisses his collarbones, tasting the sweat and aroma. Mind still trying to grip the situation. The utter realness of the reality.

 

“For what?” John asks pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s collarbone.

 

A hand cradles the back of John’s head, tugging at the hair and forcing him up until their eyes meet. John does not remember the last time he saw Sherlock this blissful, or any person this much happy and content.

 

_I did that?_

 

“Is it too late to say I love you?”

 

John feels tears threatening to come out again. And after so many years, so much waiting, so much heartbreak, the tears are of happiness.

 

“No it’s not. It’s never too late.” John feels his eyes welling up again.

 

“I love you too. But you already know that.”

 

"You are crying.”

 

Sherlock lifts a hand to wipe away the hanging teardrop.

 

No one was ever there too wipe the tears away.

 

“Yes I am. I am.”

 

John’s head falls in the crook of Sherlock's’ neck again.

 

“Don’t leave me again please. Don’t do that to me. I swear I will die this time Sherlock. I will.”

 

 

“If only I could correct the things, the years we wasted, the decision we… I took. I would do it John, however high the price may be.” The sadness in Sherlock’s voice is a reminder.

 

All the things they did, if only they could do it a bit differently.

 

John doesn’t say anything. Just clutches Sherlock more for dear life. His weight should be unbearable for Sherlock. But Sherlock’s hand is on his waist and shows no sign of letting him go.

 

“Aren’t you going to ask how or why?”

 

“Sherlock, I don’t care about how.”

 

“ … But about the why. There will be a lot of that.”

 

John forcefully turns to his side taking Sherlock along with him. Both of their heads touch the pillow.

 

“You understand this. Right?” He runs his fingers through the messy curls.

  
  
“It’s not gonna be like fairy tales. I still have to come to terms with you being alive and real and really beside me. I will still need to go to Ella because now things have taken a turn for good and I’ll need her to keep me sane. You and I will need to talk, a lot. We might get angry at each other. You will get tired of my trust issues.

 

But I will give it my best Sherlock. I love you and it’s not unrequited and that’s more than I could ever ask from life.”

 

“We will try our best.” Sherlock says, his eyes smiling.

  
  
The two years in between doesn’t wash away like magic. But it’s good. It’s going to be bearable. It’s gonna be alright.

 

John’s heart swells with fulfilment. Who imagined all this could actually be real?  
  


 

“We will. I just wish that it hadn’t taken us this long.”

 

“I know, me too.”

 

One deafening crash of thunder and lightning strikes.

  
  
Inside John clutches Sherlock tightly against his chest, against his heart. Two heartbeats meddle, beating together.

 

 

 

\-----x-----

**Author's Note:**

> Well as you can see. This is the first work in a series. There is gonna be a second part. As you can see there is not any mention of an important thing here. Sherlock's scars from Serbia. So next part will be from Sherlock pov.
> 
> As always. I appreciate some comments and kudos. :)
> 
>  
> 
> Come say Hi to me at [tumblr](http://love-in-mind-palace.tumblr.com)  
> 


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